We'll Always Have Paris
by irite
Summary: Clint Barton had no more chances. So when he was sent in to eliminate the Black Widow, there was no way he was going to mess it up. Until he took a good look at her, that is. Natalia Romanova was becoming tired of her job, but she could not see a way out. Not until she met the cocky American agent. Pre-movie origin story. Oneshot.


**This is something a little different than I usually write, but it was a barrel of fun.**

**Dedicated to (and blamed on) dysprositos, my kickass beta, who encouraged me to write more Clint and also this story. She resolved my week-long endingitis, and is totally awesome in general.**

**Okay, I haven't read the comics, so this is completely movie-verse speculation. I do borrow a little from the comics, though. And I don't know anything about espionage, so please pardon any inaccuracies.**

**Also, all Russian is from an online translator; I apologize if it is incorrect.**

**WARNINGS: suicidal thoughts and slightly graphic onscreen death of a child (and three adults).**

* * *

"Barton!"

Clint turned to face the person calling his name. The man who called himself his handler, Phil Coulson.

He seemed all right, but then, Clint had thought that of several men before. And look where that had gotten him.

Nowhere good.

So he had resolved from the beginning to keep to himself, to trust no one. Clint would take care of himself, like he always had.

Coulson approached, walking no faster than his usual sedate pace. He never did anything that wasn't _sedate_. It was unnatural, and Clint was just waiting for the day when the dam would break and the true Coulson would shine through.

"Barton. We've got a mission for you. Let's go to my office and I'll give you the details."

Clint just nodded and followed along.

Inside Coulson's office, the door clicked shut and Coulson walked around to take a seat behind his desk.

Sitting in the chair in front of the desk would leave Clint with his back to the door, so he snatched the offered file and retreated back to lean against the wall and page through it, ignoring the unreadable look Coulson shot at him.

Details were sparse, just a name: _Black Widow_.

And then the flight information; apparently Clint was going to Prague.

He raised a curious eyebrow at Coulson, who looked him steady in the face and explained, "She's Russian. Or she was, anyway. Seems like she's gone hitman now, working for anyone with who can afford her prices. She has to be stopped. That's where you come in."

One word. "Okay."

"We need her taken out, but she's good. There won't be backup. No one on comms. That would be a distraction that you won't need."

_That_ sounded like exactly Clint's style, and already this mission was looking better.

Coulson continued, "You've got to get in, take her down, and get back out again."

That was another oddity about Coulson that Clint had noticed. The man used euphemisms like they were going out of style. If he could avoid telling Clint to 'kill' the target, he would.

And then Coulson paused. Made sure that Clint's attention was on him and not the folder in the archer's hands.

"Look, Barton. This is your last chance. If you mess this one up, you're out. There's only so much I can do for you if you keep insisting on doing things your own way. Do you understand?"

Clint did. Boy, did he. Having an assassin on call was beneficial most of the time for a spy organization, but when said assassin didn't feel that orders applied to him, then things got tricky. It wasn't that Clint didn't respect orders, because really, he did, but sometimes there was a right way and a wrong way to approach a situation, and his orders were for the _wrong_ way. And Clint was kind of attached to his skin. He answered Coulson evenly, "Yes."

"Wheels up at oh-eight-hundred, then. Get some sleep."

Clint found sleep a little harder to get than usual that night. Something was going to happen; he could feel it.

* * *

He was halfway to Prague when he realized _what_ had been bothering him.

This 'Black Widow,' she sounded like _him_. A loner, but a deadly one. A contract killer.

But who was going to offer _her_ a second chance?

* * *

The sun had barely risen over Prague, and Natalia had already heard from six different people about the American assassin in the city. She was going to _ignore_ the next knock on her door, honestly.

He had gotten in overnight and checked into a hotel that, she knew from experience, was shitty and cockroach-infested.

He had not left since, and no one knew his target for certain. But plenty of people had a guess, and most of them guessed her.

She was unconcerned; she had dealt with assassination attempts before, and though they were tiring, she had yet to meet the man or woman who could match her level of skill.

Like those who came before him, he would fail. That was never a question.

So when Natalia went out to survey the building where her mark would be attending a gala that evening, there was a little more swagger to her walk than usual.

The building checked out like what she had been told, with multiple side entrances and conveniently located near a busy thoroughfare she could lose herself in if necessary. She bought lunch with her advance on the hit and was returning to her room when she sensed it.

Someone's gaze on her back.

Turning slowly like she was admiring the buildings around her (she really did not give a shit), she spotted him, on a rooftop across the street.

_Surely he cannot be _that_ sloppy, to attempt the hit here, in broad daylight?_ she wondered.

But she kept on walking like she had not seen him (and he had faded back as soon as she started to turn—if she had not been watching the skyline for movement she surely would have missed him), unconcerned.

He was just an American, after all. She had handled better.

* * *

That afternoon, just before she began to prepare for her evening, a runner came to her door. Despite her earlier annoyance with being told the same news over and over again, she let the messenger in.

The girl child told her that the American assassin, that was _Hawkeye_!

Natalia stiffened, though she was careful to hide it, and flipped the child a coin, passing her a larger one for a tip. From the looks of it, the girl could use a good meal.

She sat down to start fixing her hair, ruminating on the new information. Hawkeye was a name she had heard before, first when he was a young up-and-comer in the American underworld, and then as a traitor, gone coward and turned government agent.

But she could not really blame him. Natalia was tired of her work too, like she assumed he had been.

The difference was that she had no other choice. She had been with the Red Room since she was a child, really since before she could remember (if her memories were _truly_ her own, and not implanted like so many she suspected—and knew—had been). And when they broke apart, splintering like the Motherland was threatening to do, she had no other way.

She became a hitman for hire. Indiscriminate killing. And of course, many of her victims deserved death. Some didn't. Regardless, she was fed up with being their executioner.

What gave her the right to a man's life? A woman's? A child's?

Nothing, as far as she could tell.

But she wanted to survive, and the only way she could see to do that was to keep on going, keep on killing.

Sure, she hated the killing, but she deplored the idea of her death even more. What was that saying again? Oh, yes, it was the 'lesser of two evils.'

Survival was her goal, and if this Hawkeye wanted to try his luck against the Black Widow, well, then, maybe Natalia would get a challenge for the first time in a few months.

She had not tried herself against a truly equal opponent for ages, not since they had put the Winter Soldier back on ice the last time.

Decided, Natalia set about her preparations with a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

* * *

Her smile would not last for long, though.

Her mark (кретин [idiot] if she had ever seen one) rejected her advances in favor of his wife, who was a last-minute addition to the guest list of the gala.

One she had not been notified about, no doubt due to the underworld buzzing with news of Hawkeye instead of anything _useful_, проклятие их [curse them]!

She was no stranger to improvisation, though, so she grimly stalked to the alleyway nearest his chauffeured car to wait until he came out.

Grumbling under her breath, she hiked up her dress so that she could spread her legs and lean comfortably back against the wall. She could be patient.

Later, she straightened up when she saw a man of his physical build walking toward the car. When he passed under a streetlight, she was able to identify the mark.

And then his wife following behind him, carrying a sleeping child, говно [shit]!

But she had a job to do. Paying half the money up front meant that her employer would not hesitate to set his next price on her head if she failed. And while whomever he hired _would_ fail, as she was the only worthwhile assassin working in this miserable city, she would still have to leave.

She would _not _be run out of her own territory.

So she scanned the surroundings, saw no one, and quietly stepped up behind the woman, putting a gun smoothly to her temple.

The woman cried out, and her husband turned to face them, his face shocked. Did he truly think he was safe, out here in the dark? Natalia _was_ the dark.

"Get in the car," she ordered lowly in Czech, careful to obscure her face in shadow.

The mark did as he was told, quickly scrambling into the car. Natalia watched his hands carefully to make sure he did not alert the chauffeur, dozing in the front seat, to their plight. She pushed the woman in after him and followed, seating herself next to his wife, gun still pushed to her temple. It was not the most effective way of killing, but it was the most threatening.

She reached to rap sharply on the tinted window to awaken the driver, telling the mark to direct the chauffeur to a little-used side street a few blocks away.

He did as told, and then tried to take the child out of his wife's arms, looking at her pleadingly.

Natalia shook her head shortly, back and forth one time each.

Neither adult made a move until the car began to slow, turning into the alley. But then the child began to stir, reaching to sleepily rub at his eyes.

His father, her mark, turned a begging look on her, but she did not waver. Could not waver.

Abruptly, she swung her arm, putting the gun up to the mark's neck, to his airway and pulled the trigger once, point blank.

Then she turned it back on the woman, one shot clean through her brain, between her eyes.

The little boy started to cry, alarmed at the noise, and, though Natalia knew she would be regretting this for a long time, fired into his temple. He was young, far too young to die, but old enough that he could identify her to the police.

Kicking the door open, she strode up to the front of the car, and yanked open the driver's door, and fired at the frightened chauffeur, killing him.

Leave no witnesses, she was taught. Nobody who can identify you. Protect yourself.

She had picked well, and the alley was deserted. It was not in a populous neighborhood to begin with, and the sound of gunshots should have driven anyone else off, if they had any sense.

The regret kicked in, and she _hated_ herself in that moment more than she had ever hated anyone or anything else.

For a moment, she hefted the gun in her hand, two bullets still chambered, considering.

But suicide was out of the question, her survival instincts screaming in protest. Natalia had never successfully opposed her programming, what little of it still lingered in her system, and this time would be no exception.

She was moving to shove her gun back in its thigh holster so that she could leave, go buy some vodka, or whatever else was cheap and plentiful, and forget this night, when she heard a small sound, like cloth scraping across rock.

Her gun out, she swiveled, all finesse gone, searching the rooftops for Hawkeye. He had seen her at her most vulnerable; for that, if nothing else, he must die, she decided.

He looked at her, sniper rifle raised, and then, before she could change her mind, she let her gun fall. Looked at him and nodded, such a minute movement that it was almost imperceptible.

She kept her eyes on him and waited. Waited for him to make his move, waited to die. Was ready to die, but damn, why did this American not hurry up and _do it_ already?

He was watching her over the top of his rifle, his finger nowhere near the trigger. _Stupid_, she decided.

Just as she had almost made up her mind to pick up her gun, as nobody _this_ imbecilic deserved to live, he lowered his rifle. Met her eyes. Raised a hand in the universal signal for 'wait.'

The rifle slung across his back, he tossed a rope over the edge of the rooftop and lowered himself down, his back to her, trustingly.

And that settled it, he was, without doubt, a stupid, moronic, _fool_ for giving her such an opening. If she was not curious as to his intentions, she could have killed him in three different ways already. Seven, if he just came a foot closer.

But she _was_ curious.

He landed with a soft 'thump' and crossed over to her, his hands up where she could see them, empty.

"I'm supposed to kill you," he said, blunt and to the point.

Natalia knew that. Of course she did, the dunderhead. What did he think she thought, that it was a confetti shooter he had dangling from one shoulder? She crossed her arms over her chest to express her annoyance.

"Shit, I'm not doing this right, damn it. Uh, hi. I'm Hawkeye. No, I'm Clint. Clint Barton." He hesitated, as if he was unsure of how to continue, or perhaps as if he had just become aware of what a bad idea this was. After Natalia made no move to speak, or even acknowledge that _he_ had spoken, he blurted out, "This...the killing...this isn't what you want to be doing, is it, Widow?"

"нет [no]."

"Do you want to die? Because if I don't do it here, tonight, someone else will come. And they might not be as nice as I am."

Her English a little rusty, she responded, "You think you are _nice_, Hawk? Come offer the poor lost killer another way, a different life. I have heard it all before. Pah." As for his question, that was none of Hawkeye's business. If Natalia wanted to die, all he needed to know was where her head was located so he could pull the trigger and kill her with the least amount of fuss. _Did she want to die?_ Really, insolent Americans were just getting worse at minding their own business.

"But has anyone else _meant_ it? Because I do. I've been in your shoes, Widow. I know what it's like to be so sick of the killing that you'd do anything to be able to stop, but you _can't_."

Natalia looked down at her high heels inquisitively before realizing the idiom. "And who will stop your employers from killing me when you bring me to their door like a stray puppy? They clearly want me dead; that is why you are here."

Standing up a little straighter, he asserted, "I'll stop them."

She snorted, "Really."

"Yes, really. Now, it's pretty simple. You can come with me, or you can die. Maybe not tonight, maybe not at my hands, but someday."

"And if I come with you, what will stop me from dying there, working for your employer?"

"Your skill. And if you _do_ die, at least it will be for something you can believe in, not this contract killer bullshit."

"You Americans and your _freedom_," she snorted derisively. But she was considering, wondering. Could this actually work?

She stole a glance over her shoulder, at the body of the child visible in the backseat of the car, blood sluggishly pooling from his head, and impulsively, her decision was made.

"I will go with you. Come, we must leave this place. It will not be quiet forever." Already, she knew, people were whispering about the gunshots, and soon, the brave would begin to arrive and investigate.

"Wait, you will?" he asked, scrambling to keep up with her as she left the alley, leaving her old gun in a puddle. _Rather symbolic_, she thought in a moment of clarity. _What the hell am I doing?_

"Did I not just say that? Are your eyes so good that they take away from your ears, Hawk?"

"It's Clint. And do you have a name, Widow?"

"Later. First, you contact your employer, tell them about me. Then we will see."

"There's a payphone over that way," he pointed. "I can call from there."

She looked him over again, assessing. "You have no backup? No little voice buzzing in your ear?"

"Nah," he said proudly. "You're too good for that, Coulson said. That's my handler. He's who I'm going to call."

"And are you a good little pup for him to handle?"

"Nope. He said if I didn't get you, that I'd be kicked out. Broken too many rules or some shit like that."

"You would risk your career for me?"

"Everyone deserves a second chance." He said it like it was indisputable fact. "Okay, we're here. Keep a lookout, will you?"

Natalia did not think that deserved an answer. She pointedly turned around but kept him in her peripheral vision. Just because the idiotic pup trusted her did not mean that she trusted him. Or his 'handler.' No backup, indeed. Who worked like that?

The fact that she did was irrelevant.

* * *

Clint's head was whirling; he could hardly believe that he'd stopped his hit to talk to the Black Widow. And it was practically inconceivable that she would agree to come with him, to abandon her life.

To _come with him_. He didn't know the odds of that happening, but he figured that they were something completely insane and improbable.

He pulled some change from his pocket and fed it into the machine, dialing the number and waiting. When someone picked up, he gave his priority code, the first time he'd ever used it.

_And probably the last, too, Barton. You really think they're gonna let you stay after this? You've fucked up one too many times now._

Within minutes, Coulson was on the phone, breathing more heavily than usual, like Clint had disturbed him from doing...whatever it was that he did.

"Barton? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, sir. It's Black Widow. She defects." He spoke as if the fact that this might very well cost him his job had not occurred to him. It had, but he didn't give a shit. He was doing the right thing, and that was more important than his employment.

"_What_?"

"Black Widow defects." And then he added the code for 'all clear,' so that Coulson would know that he wasn't compromised.

Apparently knowing that Clint wasn't compromised did little for Coulson's disbelief.

"Barton...I don't know about this." But then he sighed heavily. "I'm going to have to run it by the higher-ups. In the meantime, though, I'd advise you to go to ground. _He_'s not going to be happy."

"Copy. Barton out."

As he hung up the phone, Clint almost didn't want to turn around, sure that Widow would have left, or worse, would have pulled a gun on him, would be waiting to finish the job, just waiting for him to be distracted. That would be a double victory, taking him out _and_ having his last conversation with his employers be where he was defending her. Oh, the irony.

But she wasn't. No gun in sight.

He stepped out of the small booth and told her, "Coulson's got to run it by the big guys. We've gotta move, come on. I need to get my shit, do you have anything you want?"

She didn't.

"Okay, then, we'll go back to my room and grab my stuff. I've got some cash; we can get a train out of the city. Where d'you want to go?"

"I do not care."

"We'll just see what's available, then," he decided. "This way, come on."

They walked in silence, alert to noises in the shadows around them. When they got to the hotel, she made him go through the door first. In case he'd set up booby traps, he guessed. She was very cautious.

He knew better than to go for any of the drawers until she was inside, the door shut behind her.

"I'm gonna grab my bag and my gear, okay? Make yourself at home."

She did better than that, unabashedly stripping off her dress and pulling pants and a shirt out of his bag, which he'd left open on the bed before he went out to carry out his hit.

Dressed, she hitched the pants up at the waist. They were too big, and Clint reached slowly to his waist, undid the belt he was wearing, the only one he'd brought.

Carefully, he handed it to her, and then stepped back, turning to remove the few things he'd put in the chest of drawers.

Then he pried up the loose floorboard and pulled out a waterproof package containing his emergency money (he didn't trust banks—who knew what they _really_ did with the money?) and a spare gun.

Tossing the bundle on the bed, he pulled it open, removing the gun and discarding it to the side, moving slowly so he didn't startle her.

He pretended not to notice when she snatched the gun up, instead counting out the money. He set aside enough for tickets and then some, putting the rest in his bag.

Unslinging the sniper rifle from his back, he pulled a cloth out and wiped it down for prints.

Widow watched him closely as he dropped the rifle and kicked it to a corner of the room.

"You can carry the money," Clint told her.

She folded the bills and tucked them into her pockets, waiting as he checked the room one last time and then slung the bag across his back, quickly wiping down anything he might have touched.

The Widow led the way out the door, waiting as he wiped the knob for their prints.

They walked side-by-side to the train station, not speaking for a while.

Then she asked, "You do realize that we are going to need passports to leave the country, pup?"

"Not to board the train. And if the Black Widow can't evade a couple of bored customs officials, then I don't know what the world has come to."

"Natalia. I am Natalia."

"Natalia," he tried the name out. "It's a pretty name."

He couldn't be sure in the low light, but he thought he saw her blush a little.

Almost to the train station, he instructed, "Let me do the talking. Your accent is pretty distinctive."

She shrugged, a graceful movement.

He marched up to the ticket window and bought two tickets on the second train leaving, going to Munich. When he held out an expectant hand, she gave him the money, and he made a show of counting it off, being careless, playing the ignorant tourist.

The man behind the window looked at Natalia, at her clothes. Clint made his voice nasal and said, "Some jerk snatched her bag and just _pushed_ her into a puddle. Completely _ruined_ her dress."

"Oh. American, eh?"

"Yeah." Clint knew that they seemed young. "Just takin' a year off before college, man."

"Well, good luck in your travels."

"Thanks."

Their tickets bought, they went to wait for the train. Natalia stayed close to him, taking a seat with her back to the wall in the train terminal.

When their train came, they boarded together and found seats in a corner, so that nobody could sneak up on them.

Natalia stared determinedly ahead, every so often viciously twisting the skin on her arm. Clint guessed she was tired, trying to stay awake.

"Y'know, you can nap if you want. It's okay."

"You are not going to kill me in my sleep?"

"Would I have gone to all this trouble just to off you on the train? After I've spent a good chunk of my emergency savings on you, no less? Gimme some credit, Natalia."

"Hmph. Wake me when I must hide. You have your passport, no?"

"Yeah, I do. And sure thing."

She pushed herself farther back into the corner of her seat and rested her head on the window, appearing to fall asleep almost immediately.

Clint took the opportunity to study her. She was young, probably a few years younger than he was, and her hair was dark blonde, but he could see darker roots, probably red or brown.

There was a thin, almost invisible scar down her left cheek, starting under her hairline and running down to her jaw, but other than that her face was unblemished.

Her hands were scarred and callused from what looked like _intensive_ training. They were perhaps even more hardened than Clint's own.

That made sense, though. He was a sniper, but she had to get in close, to use hand-to-hand, knives, and smaller guns to reach her target.

She'd be a good sparring partner for him sometime.

He didn't dare drift off, knowing that it would be just his luck for the passport inspector to arrive as soon as he shut his eyes. She already seemed derisive of his abilities, and he didn't want to give her any more ammunition.

So when the conductor walked through to announce that they were almost to the German border, Clint shook her shoulder, careful to only make contact in that one spot.

Still, she had his wrist in a vice grip, bent back and ready to be broken, before her eyes focused on him and she relaxed, slumping back into her seat.

He flexed his fingers a couple times experimentally and offered her an impressed nod. "Conductor just came through, says we'll be at the border soon."

"Very well. I will find you in the station when the train arrives."

Clint was a little uneasy, "You aren't just gonna run off on me, are you?"

"нет [no]."

"Good," he smiled. "See you in a while, then."

Mumbling something about 'sentimental Americans and their goodbyes,' she left, walking towards where Clint knew the bathrooms were.

He put his bag in her abandoned seat and stretched out, trying to make himself look like a single passenger, not one whose companion had just left.

The border officials were, well, bored, and only gave Clint's passport a cursory inspection before moving on.

It wasn't too much longer to the station, and when it stopped, he got off the train and moved to a wall between two exits, leaning up against it to wait for Natalia. He scanned the crowd for her.

She somehow managed to sneak up on him, though, whispering fast in his ear, "We cannot stay here; I just saw an old...associate. Who no doubt recognized me."

"Fuck. Okay, come on, we've got enough for another set of tickets, Natalia."

"Good."

Clint led the way to the ticket counter and bought two tickets for the next train out, knowing it was reckless but needing speed over covertness. They were bound for Paris soon after, and Natalia was tense for the entire distance of the trip.

He knew better than to suggest that she rest again.

* * *

Natalia had never been to Paris, surprisingly. Other parts of France, yes, but never Paris. Hopefully, this would diminish the chances of her being recognized.

So she let Hawkeye—no, Clint—take the lead. He selected a hotel near several eateries and checked them in as man and wife with an identity pulled from his wallet.

She had not seen this wallet before, nor that specific card, and when they were alone in their room she promptly stuck her hand into his back pocket and pulled it out for closer inspection.

He yelped and spun around, the silly little pup. But he made no offensive move towards her, and after a few seconds she dropped her guard, stepped out of her defensive stance, and flipped the wallet open.

The identity card was an American driver's license, registered to 'Clint Barton.'

"This is yours, yes? Not a government identity?"

"Yeah, it is. Coulson might figure I'd use it, but he'd be the only one. Nobody else would think I'd be that damn sloppy. And I don't think he'll tell anyone. He's not the sort. Besides, if this goes sideways, that will reflect badly on him, and he won't want that."

Ah, personal advancement. This reason, Natalia could understand, more so than his 'feelings' about this 'Coulson.'

"So you are 'sloppy' on purpose because you are that skilled?"

"Sounds kind of crazy when you put it like that."

She waved a hand, "No, this is a good idea. I like it."

"Glad you approve," he snorted. "Now, we shouldn't go out so much, so, uh, what do you want to do?"

This inquiry threw Natalia. She had never been asked what she _wanted_, not since she became a part of the Red Room. Wants were irrelevant to them; they only cared for the most basic of needs. And those only when it suited them.

When she did not answer, he added, "Um, we can just talk if you wanted. Or not. Whatever."

Information was valuable in her line of work, so she decided. "We will talk."

She took a seat on the floor next to the door, leaning her back against the wall. The hotel was small, and their bathroom was down the hall, shared with the occupants of several other rooms, and there was no closet to inspect. The room was secure.

He put the bag on the bed and joined her, sitting across from her. He tucked his legs up in front of him in an odd configuration. It took her a moment to realize what was so odd about it. For Clint, getting up, off the floor, would be nearly impossible to do quickly. Sitting like she was, with her legs simply bent and tucked off to the side side, where she could roll up to her knees and then her feet almost instantly, was much better.

"Why do you sit like that?"

When he looked confused, she explained the illogic behind such a position, and he laughed.

"It's something they teach us when we're kids. Sitting 'Indian style.' Or 'criss-cross-applesauce.' In preschool."

By the time she was considered to be old enough to attend school, Natalia was already a member of the program. She had received traditional education only supplementarily; espionage being her primary training program.

This is not something that could necessarily compromise her, so she revealed, "I have never attended school. What is it like?"

He described the other children and the learning. It sounded very basic, so she told him that, scoffing at lackluster American education.

"That's only elementary school, though. I was through with school really young. It had no point after I joined the circus.," he shrugged, but his eyes seemed sad. He showed too much emotion.

"I do not understand."

"Don't understand 'circus' or why I quit?"

"Both."

"Well, a circus is like a carnival. D'you know what a carnival is?"

She nodded; she had seen some during her travels.

"And my parents died, and the orphanage they put me in was terrible. I ran away, and got a job at the circus. That's where I learned to shoot."

"You do not have your bow with you." It was, she knew, his signature.

"No, they wanted the hit on you to be bland. And an arrow through your skull would have been a little distinctive."

He was blunt. She appreciated that. "Yes, it would."

"I'll show you when we get home, though."

His wording was unusual, and it took her a minute to run through the translation to make sure she had not misunderstood, before she said, "You consider your base of operations _home_?"

He seemed to understand what she was implying and shrugged. "Not really, no. But that's American colloquialisms for you." He furrowed his eyebrows and then added, "Do you have a last name, Natalia?"

"Romanova. I am Natalia Romanova."

"That's pretty." He complimented her name yet again, but she did not understand.

It was an ordinary name. After the dynasty fell (_crumbled, archaic system_, her mind wanted to add), the surname 'Romanov' and its derivatives became common. She did not know if it was her birth name or if it was given to her by the agency. But she believed that 'Natalia' was her birth name, and the Red Room had allowed her to keep it.

Neither of them said anything for a few moments, and then he volunteered, "I'm hungry, we've been traveling all day. I think it would be better if we both go out, maybe we can get some women's clothing for you as well. That way you wouldn't stand out as much."

His story about her bag being stolen and her dress ruined had stood up well while they were traveling, but he was correct, of course. Dressing traditionally would attract less attention.

They had exchanged their currency at the train station, and he carefully counted it out, sorting it into piles, one for food, clothes, and emergencies.

Her clothing allowance was small, but she understood that their money should be conserved for food. There was no telling how long this 'Coulson' would take to convince the government that she would be a valuable asset.

_If he even can._

They went out, and Natalia acquired a cheap t-shirt from a tourist shop and had to spend more than she would have liked on ill-fitting pants. Her shoes were from her gala outfit, but they were comfortable, low-heeled, and left her free to move about. She did not wear impractical shoes as a principle, even as part of a disguise.

Clint told her he had an extra jacket she could borrow, and she was satisfied with that.

They bought bread and cheese, enough that there would be some left over for the next day, and a bottle of cider, the cheapest available, and returned to their hotel room.

After they ate, they took turns standing guard while the other one used the bathroom.

It was late, and Natalia was tired. Clint looked between her and the single bed in the room several times before nodding to himself.

"You take the bed, and I'll sleep on the floor."

American chivalry. "That is unnecessary, I am accustomed to sleeping on the floor. You may have the bed. It is your money we are spending."

"No, it's fine, honestly."

"слабоумный [imbecile]. Then we will both sleep on the floor."

He rolled his eyes but agreed. She picked up one of the thin pillows from the bed and took the jacket he had given her, going to where she had sat near the door earlier. It was a defensible position, and she would be alerted to any comings or goings through the door.

Dropping the pillow on the floor, she laid down, putting the gun she had taken from Clint under her pillow, wrapping a hand around its handle.

Clint took the other pillow and the blanket off the bed. He offered it to her, and she shook her head.

Shrugging, he made himself comfortable on the floor next to the opposite wall, pulling the blanket over him. It obscured any movements of his arms, and she was unable to determine if he, too, grasped a weapon.

"Sleep well, Natalia."

She had never heard such a sentiment in her life. What was the point in this, telling her to sleep well? He had no control over such a thing.

Unless, of course, he snored.

* * *

He did not, in fact, snore.

Natalia slept well, better than she had in years. She did not feel the need to be as vigilant, as aware of her surroundings, because she had someone else with her.

And while she did not trust Clint, she _did_ trust that he would not kill her in her sleep. He had been presented with many opportunities to kill her during the previous day, and he had taken none of them.

He woke her up the next morning with his right hand, the one she had noticed was slightly weaker, on her shoulder.

She tensed, but when she saw it was him, she relaxed. Sliding her gun out from under the pillow, she replaced it in its hiding place just under the loose waistband of her pants before uncurling from under his jacket.

Seeing that she was awake, he withdrew, going over to where they had left their food the night before. Carefully, he split the bread in half, putting one piece aside and doing the same with the cheese.

He took a few pulls from the cider bottle and then set that aside with the food intended for her.

If he was not going to kill her in her sleep, then he would not poison her food either. Natalia ate her breakfast dutifully, keeping an eye on him as he paced restlessly back and forth along the opposite wall. He was careful to give her an appropriate amount of space, though, and she appreciated that.

They took turns standing guard outside the bathroom again. She took the time to wash her face, removing much of the makeup still left over from her disguise at the gala, and used a finger to scrub at her teeth.

While she was waiting outside for him to finish up, one of the neighbors approached, and she stiffened.

In French, he inquired, "Are you waiting in line?"

She nodded, and he moved to slump against the opposite wall, waiting. She was glad when Clint finished and they were able to return to their room together. People made her edgy.

Inside, he settled down on the floor and picked up the trash from their food, and started playing with it, absently ripping the paper bag into strips.

She sat with him and took several of the pieces from him, beginning to weave them together to give herself something to do, absently creating a complicated braid like she might have worn in her hair as a ballerina (_No, that was not real_, she reminded herself).

After a few minutes, they could hear the man's footsteps recede down the hall, and at about the same time, they both relaxed.

Clint crumpled up the paper scraps he had been playing with and said, "Got any more questions for me, Natalia?"

Of course she did, the silly pup. Information was one of the tools of her trade, and he was foolishly offering to answer her questions. She started with the most pressing. "Why do you work for the government? Why not for yourself? You are not bad at what you do."

"Fuck, you don't ask the easy questions, do you? God... Uh, because it's the right thing to do. And I know that all the way down, deep in my gut. Because I've made mistakes, and it's only right that I atone for them. I think I could spend the rest of my life trying to make up for all the fuck-ups in my past."

"You feel guilty, and you feel that you must repay all the wrongs with good deeds."

"Pretty much, yeah."

That made sense. She could easily understand that.

After several beats of silence, Clint grinned at her and asked, changing the subject, "So, how many languages do you speak?"

Natalia cocked her head to the side and thought about it. "Eight well," she decided. She could speak fragments of several others, too, but she was only fluent in eight.

"Wow, I can only do four well. Five, if you don't mind that my German accent is the most fucked-up thing ever."

Her accents were, of course, impeccable, because that could often mean the difference between life and death if she was in deep cover. "If you did not go to school, where did you learn?"

"The people I work for, they put me in classes. Got me my GED and everything."

"GED?"

"It's the um, equivalent of a high school diploma. They'll probably do the same for you. It's a requirement to work for them, that you need to have at least graduated from high school."

"This organization, it is not the government?"

Clint seemed surprised that she would have noticed that. Still, he answered, "Not really, no. They don't just answer to the US government, there's people higher up than that. And they aren't exactly a public organization, not like the KGB or the CIA. That's really all I know, they don't tell us grunt workers much."

That was more than she has ever known, valuable information, and she filed it away for later.

After that, they discussed other things, topics that were somehow both intensely personal and detached at the same time (such as favorite foods and preferred weapons). Things that they could share without giving too much of themselves away.

* * *

Clint hadn't been hungry at midday, but he had noticed Natalia wolf down her breakfast and he figured that she would probably appreciate food.

So they went out again, together, and bought more bread and cider. Neither wanted to buy alcohol, knowing that they needed to be alert. She insisted that they purchase some fruit, too, and Clint acquiesced easily. When he was ready to eat again, he would enjoy something sweet.

She did eat when they returned to their room, but she let him be, not trying to make him have lunch. He appreciated it; he was full-grown, and he would eat when he was damn well ready.

When she was finished, she drew her knees into her chest and looked at him, studying him.

He was not self-conscious under her scrutiny; he'd been stared at before, and he appreciated the fact that she made no attempt to hide her attention.

"You feel responsible for me, yes?" she asked suddenly, startling him.

"'Course I do, Natalia. I made a decision and I'm going to stick by it."

"Stubborn pup."

"You'd rather I didn't? If I let you go, then you'll be okay for a while, sure, but sooner or later someone else will come. And maybe they'll be better than I am, and they'll take the shot without thinking. And then you'll be dead. You can't tell me you want that. Someone in your line of work's gotta have killer survival instincts."

"I do not wish for death now, no."

"But you did." It's not a question; he knows. She had been going to _let_ him kill her.

"I saw no other way out."

"Until I gave you one."

"I am grateful."

"You're welcome."

They resumed their previous, more lighthearted lines of conversation, and he discovered that she loved to dance. She said she loved the exertion, and that it was nice to have the chance, to do something for love of the art and not just as a means to an end.

He'd seen her move, knew that her easy grace must be in part attributed to the dancing, and told her so.

She laughed, and then she suddenly stood, snatching one of his hands and pulling him up as well. Taking the lead, she whirled them in a circle, and he followed along, watching her face.

For the first time, she was _smiling_ like she meant it, and not like it was a means of camouflage.

They moved around the room for a moment before she dropped his hands and stepped back. He let her, knowing that she would not appreciate an intrusion into her personal space.

She seemed so young then, a child practically, joyous with a new experience.

The rest of the day passed by quietly, and they seemed to be enjoying each other's company. He knew he was enjoying hers, and he believed the feeling to be mutual.

They slept on opposite sides of the room again, after he playfully offered her the bed and she scoffed.

It was almost _fun_.

* * *

The next morning they ate what was left over from the previous day, and then Clint ventured, "I think we should go call in. They're usually pretty efficient, and they should have made a decision by now."

Natalia nodded, and silently, companionably, they packed up the bag, preparing to change locations if necessary.

She had noted a payphone down the street, and she led him there and took up position outside to wait while he made the call, keeping an eye out.

He dialed, and the wait to punch in his code was _agonizing_.

The wait between his code being verified and an operator picking up seemed shorter than normal, and when someone _did_ pick up, it was Coulson, and not the generic flunky he had been expecting.

"Barton?"

"Yeah."

"Is she still with you?"

"'Course she is. Sir."

"It's okay. You made the right call. The Director said so himself. She'll be a valuable asset after re-education."

"Coulson. She's a _person_." Clint didn't like the sound of 're-education'—he'd been through some of that, and it wasn't pretty. And he didn't like hearing Natalia talked about as an 'asset,' even if that was how Coulson probably talked about _him, _too. It was dehumanizing.

"I know, Barton. But that's not my call to make. I'm sorry."

As much as Clint didn't want to, he understood.

"They want us home?"

"Yes, I've got the money here to wire you for tickets. Where should we send it?"

That was bullshit—unless HQ had updated their tracing protocols since he'd last been briefed, they'd gotten a fix on his location two minutes ago. But it seemed like a facet of Coulson's personality, this bland politeness, so Clint answered, "Paris, sir."

"We'll wire it into the Western Union near the embassy. You can get her a passport there, you know the official code to do that."

"Got it." Clint hesitated, but he knew he owed this man a great debt. "Thanks, boss."

Coulson sounded surprised, a little of his facade slipping, "You're very welcome, Agent Barton. I'll see you shortly."

"Barton out."

He ended the call and exited the phone booth, indicating that she should follow him off to the side out of the way of other passers-by, where they could talk relatively privately.

"They want you as an asset."

"That's good, yes? Why do you seem so troubled?" She was perceptive, he'd give her that.

"Coulson said something about re-education. I've only been through part of that program, but it's the most hellish thing I've ever done. It's gonna be ten times worse for you since you're a foreign acquisition. I won't make you come back with me. Won't blame you for saying 'no.' This is your call, Natalia. I can give you all the money I have to spare and let you go if you want."

"No. As you have said, remaining in my current lifestyle will eventually lead to death. I am not afraid of your 're-education.' I will return with you."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. This is the right decision."

He was glad _someone_ thought so.

"Okay, then. They're gonna wire us the money for tickets, and I'm supposed to get you a passport at the American embassy."

"How?"

"There's a code. It's not exactly legal, but then, when is anything we do, really?"

It was a rhetorical question, one he did not expect answered, but she tipped her head to the side and replied, "Moral laws sometimes surpass legal codes, and what we are doing, it is _right_."

Clint raised an eyebrow, surprised to hear his own beliefs echoed so clearly back to him. "You're smart. C'mon, let's go."

"Thank you. For everything. I do not think I deserve your kindness."

"You do, Natalia. And someday, you'll see that."

* * *

They were able to pick up the money and procure a passport for her without any issues.

He disposed of his remaining weaponry before boarding the flight, but did not have the heart to tell her to do the same.

As the minutes counted down and the airplane got closer to America, she grew more rigid.

Tense, she continued to deny that she was scared of what was to come.

But when Clint offered her his open, empty hand, she did not hesitate before placing hers in it.

They held hands the rest of the flight, and kept them clasped as they disembarked the plane and Clint led the way to a plain, black car waiting outside the airport.

She slid into the backseat first, and Clint followed, their hands still linked.

Across from them, Coulson nodded. "Black Widow. Barton."

"Hello, I am Natalia Romanova. You are Coulson, yes?"

Coulson responded, "I am. I see Agent Barton has been talking about us."

_Agent?_ Clint hadn't been an 'agent' when he'd left. If they'd used a title with him, which was rare, it was 'Mister.' The thought of his bringing in Natalia only to receive a promotion of his own as a reward made him sick to his stomach, a dull knot growing in the base of it.

Natalia laughed, but her grip on Clint's fingers tightened. "He has not said much. I know you work for the same organization as he does, but nothing other than his name and yours has been told to me."

Coulson looked them both over, and then asked formally, "Do you surrender yourself for re-education, Natalia Romanova, otherwise known as the Black Widow?"

"I do."

"Very well. We will be arriving at our destination soon, and then you will be taken into custody."

"Am I not already a prisoner?"

Nobody answered that, and they rode the rest of the way in silence.

* * *

The car stopped, and Coulson indicated that they should get out. Natalia slid out, and Clint followed, his hand still wrapped around hers.

He was determined to provide comfort for her as long as he could.

They were met with agents, who pointed guns at them. It was an unnecessary show of force, in his opinion. She was _there_, wasn't she? What the hell was the point? Intimidation? That wasn't going to work on her. From what she'd said, she'd seen it all before.

Coulson got out behind them, and inquired, following procedure, "Are you armed, Widow?"

She turned to Clint and said, "I am. Clint, it is on my left leg."

He slowly reached down and lifted her pants leg, sliding his hand up her thigh carefully as she stood stock still, pulling out the handgun he'd let her have. One of the agents put out a hand for it, and Clint placed the gun in the empty palm.

She looked at him and said, "Do not worry. I am strong." She moved to disentangle her fingers, but he held on.

"I'll see you on the other side, Natalia."

She assessed him for a moment, and then pulled her hand away again, and he let her go. She stepped towards the agents, her head held high. "I am ready."

They led her away, and Coulson looked at Clint. "I'm sorry. Right now, you're on official leave. There's a hotel nearby, might I suggest you get some rest until we can head back to New York? It'd probably be best if you kept a low profile. I've got to go, but I'll do my best to keep you updated." He walked away after the others.

Clint realized then that maybe he hadn't given Coulson enough of a chance, that maybe he really was a decent man after all.

He checked into the hotel Coulson had indicated, and waited.

* * *

Clint waited for two and a half months. Generally, Coulson would call every other day with an update, mostly just another variation of "She's doing well. No, I can't tell you anything else." Despite saying the same _exact_ thing every time, Coulson somehow managed to reword his messages. Clint idly wondered if he had actually read the thesaurus cover to cover or if he just looked up synonyms before calling.

It was the longest two and a half months—seventy-six days—of Clint's life.

He'd joined the gym down the street and he spent hours there daily, lifting weights and sparring with anyone brave enough to take him on after he wiped the floor with the first three guys' asses. There weren't many takers, but there were some, and although Clint didn't participate in the betting, he knew money was changing hands.

After his workout, he would grab some food and run. Run for miles, until he couldn't worry about Natalia, until all he could think about was the burn in his muscles.

At night, he'd read. The local library was a quiet refuge for him to visit during the day, usually on his way home from a run, when his legs were quivering and he could hardly stand up straight, and the librarians never minded if he came in sweaty and had trouble using the card catalog.

He got the hang of it fairly quickly though; the orderly system made sense to him.

He studied. History: famous battles and tactics. Science: lactic acid buildup. Language: Russian.

Learning was, for the first time, fun. It occupied his thoughts and kept him distracted.

His routine did its job well, keeping him busy him during the day.

But when it came time for him to sleep, he rarely could. His dreams were troubled, his guilt at putting Natalia into that situation weighing on him.

The dark circles under his eyes grew more pronounced, but he soldiered on. A little insomnia paled in comparison to whatever they were putting Natalia through. He could deal with it. He _would_ deal with it.

On the morning of the seventy-sixth day, though, before Clint left for the gym, a bag of books to return to the library on his way already packed, the phone rang.

"Barton," he answered.

"Barton, it's Coulson. You might want to open your door in, I'd say, about two minutes from now. See you soon."

His handler hung up then, before he said anything else, and Clint didn't know Coulson well enough yet to determine if the strange edge to his voice boded well or evil. This coyness, though, was new.

Had the higher-ups' patience run out with Clint's absence? Was he being sent back into the field?

Or had something happened to Natalia? Were they coming to tell him in person?

He didn't dare hope.

Pacing from one side of his small room to the other, he waited, growing more impatient by the second.

Footsteps could be heard approaching the door, and he didn't bother to wait for the knock, he just swung the door open.

Natalia smiled at him, letting her hand drop back to her side.

He threw his arms around her for a hug (she didn't respond, but she didn't push him away either) and then just as quickly pulled back, looking her over for injuries.

"I am fine, pup. Can I come in?"

Clint stepped back out of the doorway and let her walk into his room.

She looked around, placing the messenger bag that had been hanging over her shoulder on the table. "Nice. You have been busy, I see," she indicated the neat stack of books and notebooks, and then the messy pile of workout gear on the floor.

"God, Natalia. I was fucking worried about you." The vehemence of his admission surprised him, but she took it in stride.

"I was worried about me, too. But it is all fine. I have passed all their tests, and they say I am 're-educated.' Coulson is to be my handler, like you, and he has given me two days off before we are supposed to report for a mission."

"Together?" He did most of his work alone; being teamed up with anyone was unusual. But Coulson probably had a reason for it, and Clint wasn't going to question it too much. Besides, working with Natalia would be _fun_.

"Is that not what 'we' implies, pup?" Her smile was playful around the edges, but she'd clearly lost weight (which she didn't need to lose), and she looked tired, dark circles under her eyes, her usually perfect posture a degree or two off.

Clint pulled out the chair and indicated that she should sit down. She did. "What is wrong, pup?"

Her accent was almost invisible now, he noticed. He knew she could eliminate it if she wanted, and he supposed that its loss meant she was more comfortable in her new country. "I hate myself for being the one responsible for putting you through that. I mean, shit, _look_ at you!" He waved a hand up and down her body. What he was trying to point out, he didn't know.

"I am sleep-deprived, yes, but I am okay, Clint. It was worth it."

Clint tried to make his brain accept that new information, but he was also tired, and it took awhile.

Meanwhile, she stood and surveyed the room. "I think I am not the only one who could use some sleep, yes? After, we can talk."

"Wanna sleep on the floor again, Natalia?" He couldn't resist teasing her.

She tossed her hair back exaggeratedly, a move he wouldn't have thought she would use, "We are adults, we can both sleep in the bed. I believe I can keep my hands to myself, yes?"

_Okay, I kind of deserved that one._ Clint snorted at himself but toed off his boots and followed her to the bed. He kept the curtains drawn, and all she had to do was turn out the lamp over the bed to make the room dark enough for sleep.

They both laid down, and were asleep within minutes.

* * *

Natalia woke up first, and she quietly slipped to the bathroom, not wanting to wake Clint. Silly pup, worrying so about her. Did he not know that she could take anything? What was that expression again, 'what does not kill you only makes you stronger?'

Indeed, she had been made stronger. Made into a new person entirely, really. She had finished her 're-education,' gone through basic training (which was indeed _basic_), and started studying for her GED. They had agreed to make an exception and allow her to begin working on a trial basis, to become a full employee once she had passed the test.

And she _would_ pass it soon.

The sound of water running must have woken Clint, because she heard him call, "Natalia?"

They were going to have to talk about that. The task that lay in front of her, creating a new person, was daunting.

But she was scrubbed _raw_ from their ministrations, many aspects of 'Natalia' gone, and it was only fitting that she reform the rest of herself also.

"In here," she returned, and she could hear him getting out of bed and the click of the lamp turning on.

She left the bathroom and went out to where he was standing in the middle of the room, scrubbing at his eyes with his fists, his hair messy from sleep.

They had gotten several hours of rest, and that was good.

But now she needed to talk to him, needed to tell him about her plan. She hoped that he would help.

Trying to form her thoughts clearly, she told him, "Clint. I am not the same person I was. They stripped me raw, and only built me back up halfway. I must to do the rest myself, they say. But I would like some help."

"Of course, whatever you need."

She should have known he'd be agreeable. That just seemed like the kind of person he was.

"I want to change my name. And dye my hair back to what it was. They said they would take care of my wardrobe, but I want a few things just for me."

"That sounds like a damn good start." He dropped down to the floor cross-legged, and she followed, mimicking his awkward position, subconsciously indicating her comfort in the situation by adopting the more illogical manner of sitting. "D'you have any names in mind?"

She had already decided that, and it was a small joke for herself. "For a last name, Romanoff. But a first name? No."

He thought for a moment. "I guess 'Natalie' is too similar, huh?"

She made a face, "And common."

"You wanna be different, then." He paused, "What about 'Natasha?' It's similar, but not too much."

She turned the name over in her head for a moment. "Natasha Romanoff. I like it."

"I do too," he smiled. "As for the rest of it, we're gonna have to go out for that. There's a drugstore down the street, and a mall a few streets over. You have money?"

"I was given a bank account and an advance on my salary, yes."

"Good. Let's go," he said, standing and slinging a bag across his shoulder.

She put hers over her shoulder as well and followed him out.

At the drugstore, she found the red dyes, wanting to return to her original hair color. She had been forced to dye it after leaving the Red Room, but she missed it, the flamboyant red. And the way it looked currently, red roots growing out so that her hair was half blonde and half red, was not flattering to her at all.

"Red, huh, Nat?"

"Nat?"

"Yeah. You mind?"

"...No." She should have expected that he would give her a nickname, she did call him 'pup,' after all.

"Good." He picked up three boxes, juggling two in one hand, and examined them closely.

She rolled her eyes at his incompetence and went for the brightest red available, as it was the closest to what she remembered her hair being. It made her happy.

"You like that one?"

"That is a stupid question, obviously I do, if it is the only one I have chosen. Besides, my hair used to be this color."

"Okay, then." He put back the boxes he was holding and turned to her. "Need anything else?"

She selected some basic cosmetics, and paid for them with a check at the register, calmly presenting her new ID, with its generic identity (Cindy Brown, such a _dull_ name), to the cashier for verification.

Tucking her purchases into her bag, she indicated that he should lead the way to their next destination.

"I need to run by the library first, drop these off," he shook his bag.

That was acceptable, and she followed him down the quiet streets to the library.

Inside, he slid the books across the counter to an older woman, who beamed at him. "Carl, honey, it's good to see you! And who's this?"

"This is Nat. She's come to tell me about a new job at her firm. I'm only going to be here for a few days, then I'll go back with her."

The librarian lowered her voice, "Is she who you were waiting for?"

Clint's face flushed a little, and he tried to duck a little so that Natasha could not see, but she did. "Yes, she is. I'll be back with everything else I've got checked out tomorrow. Have a good day!"

Outside, she looked at him. "Waiting for someone, _Carl_?"

"Yes, I was. Now, c'mon, mall's this way."

Natasha had to give him credit, he was far more patient with her shopping than she had expected him to be. He did not complain once, patiently waiting while she tried things on, getting a sense of her sizes in the American way of sizing things. They had taken her measurements at the agency base but had not bothered to inform her _what_ they were. She supposed that they believed she knew.

And then, back in his hotel room, he helped her dye her hair. She was used to doing it by herself, but it did go easier with two people. And she knew that helping her, seeing her act normally, reassured him.

That Natasha _wanted_ to reassure him was surprising to her, because she had never cared for another person in that way before.

But Clint was an exception to several rules, she was learning.

Afterwards, her fully-red hair dry, he suggested that they go for a run. She enjoyed it, the physical exertion after so many days spent cooped up (even their basic training had not been much—they had said that they knew she was more than adequately skilled in combat, and had instead focused on the more minute details of their mission statement and responsibilities and espionage in general), and they both slept well that night.

* * *

The next day, they packed up all of their belongings and returned the last of Clint's library books. He thanked the librarians, and they left.

At the gym he had been attending, she watched him interact with the other patrons, telling them he was going back home for a job. The others seemed upset to see him leave, and when Natasha overheard a few of them discussing exchanging bets, she believed she knew why. Playing up his skills for an audience was something that she would have guessed Clint would enjoy, so she was not very surprised to hear he'd been making a name for himself.

They both had been eyeing the sparring ring wistfully, wanting to try their skills against the other, but they knew that was an activity better conducted without witnesses. Neither of them wanted to explain how they had gotten their advanced training.

That afternoon, they took a plane to New York, sitting side by side again. For a moment, she slipped her hand into his and squeezed, but she did not need his help any longer, and he recognized that. For that, she was glad.

Coulson met them in an exact copy of the car they had slid into after their flight from Paris, but instead of meeting them grimly, he handed over two identical files, a smile playing around the corners of his mouth at their playful interaction when Clint tried to swipe her file and she punched him.

Maybe she hit him a little harder than she should have, but he hit her back just as hard with his shoulder, and she liked that he did not think of her as weak, did not think he needed to limit his strength when interacting with her.

They read through their instructions during the car ride, and then Coulson dropped them off at the armory, where they grabbed their gear.

Natasha was amused to see Clint's locker and his bow, so carefully wrapped up and stored.

In turn, he was impressed with her custom-made Widow's Bite, a version of a weapon she had used several times while working for the Red Room. She, too, was impressed; they had managed to make it exactly to her specifications.

The mission went well, as did most of them after that. Natasha achieved 'agent' status after six successful missions, having gotten her GED between the second and third (Clint whined about favoritism—he had not gotten his until he had been with the agency for over a year), and soon after they were separated for the first time, assigned to different missions.

But they always were put together again, in a formidable combination Coulson had code-named 'Strike Team Delta.'

For years, they were content at the top of the food chain of the organization that came to be known as SHIELD.

Yet as time passed, and as their work started to take on stranger and stranger overtones, they had to accept that the world was changing around them, and they would have to adapt to fit within it, even re-evaluate their perceptions of themselves.

That was fine; they could adapt. They were capable of change.

And even when things got intense, got hard, got _weird_, well, they would still have each other.

They would always have Paris.

That's what was important.

* * *

**I would love to hear what you think about this. Isn't the review box shiny?**


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